


Epinephrine

by irving



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: M/M, except maybe like... 1 thing, i lied about only posting txf lmao, marcus bell doesn't appreciate anything that happens in this fic, sherlock has 900 bees in his room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:04:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8627380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irving/pseuds/irving
Summary: “Honeybees depend not only on physical contact with the colony, but also require it's social companionship and support. Isolate a honeybee from her sisters and she will soon die.”- Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally just a lazy thing to distract me from all the OTHER writing im doing lmao but!!! i kinda cleaned it up not really

A knock on the door sent Sherlock nearly flying out of his own bed. Had he been sleeping? For a few moments, he stood in confusion, squinting at the opposite wall. Had he been asleep? Would've been a first, falling asleep without effectively knocking himself out. Turning, he squinted at the pile of papers on his bed. So he had been asleep. He wouldn't leave papers like this if he hadn't.

"Sherlock?" Oh, Joan. Right. He had forgotten about her in his rush to figure out if he had been asleep. Opening the door a crack, he met eyes with his protege.

"Joan. What's wrong? Did someone die?"

"No, but you haven't come out of your room in a day. Is something wrong?" Sherlock thought about it for a moment.

"Nothing to be concerned about, Watson, I was... regrettably asleep." This was only half a lie. Half a lie was much better than one of the full lies he usually told. As a matter of fact, he wasn't even sure if it was half a lie. Technically, he had been asleep, and he wasn't entirely sure there was nothing to be concerned about. With that, he closed the door and locked it. All three locks. Joan wasn't getting in and he wasn't getting out.

He spent remarkably little time in his room. It was, unlike most people's rooms, not a safe haven. It was not his personal space. This room was no heavenly castle, no place he could hide. It was a stronghold, a bomb shelter, a jail cell. It was a means to an end. It was the place he went when he had to solve a problem - not a crime, no, but a personal problem. Of which he had many, but there was one that he was trying to overcome in particular.

Detective Marcus Bell.

Sherlock, as a child, had been deterred from many things. Chasing birds, petting dogs, petting cats, talking to other children, running, jogging, moving in any way that wasn't a walk, smiling, or anything else that defined childhood. Most of all, though,  Sherlock had grown up in a situation of rampant homophobia.

It had been the seventies, after all. Seventies in London. Wasn't like it was in modern day America, where you could marry anyone you wanted in any state. No, Sherlock had grown up in a house where even the idea of same-sex marriage had been vomit-inducing.

Sherlock remembered one nanny he had had for a very short period of time. Her name had been Norma and she hadn't owned a car. Usually, she caught a ride home with Sherlock's mother or father, but one day Norma's girlfriend, who Sherlock had later discovered had been a lovely woman named June, picked her up. Sherlock had never seen Norma again after that and while he had passed it off as the usual nanny firing, he later recalled the nanny that had nearly let him drown himself by accident being allowed to stay on for a very long time.

No, Sherlock knew the truth now. His father had never been accepting, really - it didn't surprise him. But still, it was internalized. A conflict with a part of himself he simultaneously hated and was clinging onto like it was the only part of his identity that mattered. No doubt if some of Sherlock's more philosophical associates knew about the turmoil he was experiencing, they'd say it was a metaphor for a struggle between his current, new and improved, drug-free, family-free self and his family, traditionalism and the like. Sherlock didn't have time for them.

He needed.... He needed.....

Sherlock bit his lip, pacing back and forth. The hum of bees in the background had previously been a comfort. Now he was sure they were drowning his thoughts.

It was times like these Sherlock missed drugs. Times where he felt like it was all too much and that if he spent one moment like this he would fucking lose it.

He needed.. his phone. Phones were the pinnacle of new age distraction, designed effectively to take people out of the present and into the digital world. Phones were as close to drugs as he could get.

Sherlock paused, looking around. Where was his phone?

It hit him that he wasn't dressed in his usual clothing. He was wearing... pajamas. Oh. That explained it. He never kept his phone on him outside of his work clothing. Pajamas were a different matter. God, he must've been exhausted if he didn't remember changing.

"Joan!" Sherlock opened the door again, poking his head out. No response. "JOAN!" Louder this time. A few moments later, Joan's shoes came clicking towards him and she herself came into view, looking frustrated.

"Have you decided to be sociable?" Sherlock shook his head vigorously.

"I am not coming out of my room. I have - I have something to work through. Get me my phone." Joan frowned, seemingly concerned rather than frustrated. "Sherlock, are you okay? Do you need to talk?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing deeply.

"Watson, whenever am I not fine?" Now, actually, and as much as he desperately wanted to reach out to Joan, his friend, his best friend, for help, he wouldn't. He and romance were an unlikely combination, but Joan was susceptible and Sherlock didn't want to get her hopes up for any relationships he might have. Watson paused, turning it over in her head. "My phone, Watson. My phone." He paused. "Please. Please get my my phone." A hint of begging in his voice now. Joan looked at him for a moment before nodding and walking off to get the phone. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, closing the door and pressing his forehead against it. The wood felt cold.

He felt.... hmm. Confused, mostly. It was all too overwhelming, pressing down on his ears and temples and shoulders and weighing him down to the ground. Joan knew that something wasn't right. Joan knew better than to pry. Sherlock found himself slowly descending to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest slowly, taking a deep breath as he did so.

This was bad. This was bad. That was the only thing Sherlock could think at the moment. Why couldn't he stay the way he had been? Contentedly post-love for the rest of time? Why couldn't it stay that way?

Irene had supposed to be the only one. The only person he loved, only person he could love. If he did it again, then it wasn't - wasn't special. Wasn't perfect anymore. On the other hand, the only person he had ever loved - before this - had been an evil mastermind who had killed many people. Marcus wasn't that, Sherlock knew. A man like him didn't have the capability to be so wholly evil. Sherlock knew too much about him.

Irene, he had known.... nothing. She had been a mystery. The only case he felt was worthy of cracking, the greatest conundrum he would ever come across.

And he had solved her. It was over. For the best.

He knew Bell like the back of his hand, down to every mannerism. Hell, they had worked a case about zebras together. That was as close as they could get, really. Zebras. Sherlock wasn't quite sure at what point he realized that his feelings for Bell were.... changing, but if he had to choose, it would be that case.

But Bell fascinated Sherlock all the same, for that exact reason. Changing. Bell seemed to be ever-changing - Sherlock may have known everything about him, but what truths that Sherlock did know, he found amazing. He found Bell amazing. A knock on the door. Sherlock reached up, opening the door carefully. He thrust one hand out roughly.

"Phone. Now. Please," he murmured hoarsely, looking up at Watson, who hesitantly pressed the phone into his hand. "Thank you, Joan," he mumbled before closing the door roughly. Curling closer into the corner, Sherlock found that was very hard to handle a phone with shaking hands. He could barely type.  
  


_'EPINEPHRINE.'_

Sherlock had never seen the point of texting beyond using abbreviations, but code names were fun too. He had long since informed all his friends of all the code names he'd use for things. Epinephrine had many uses, but it usually meant "JESUS CHRIST I'M EITHER ACTIVELY RELAPSING OR HAVING A PANIC ATTACK GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE." Epinephrine was one of the chemicals released when you had an anxiety attack - it was like adrenaline, but worse. It was, inversely, also used to treat anaphylactic shock. Sherlock knew it was the one that Bell would respond to the fastest - it was, after all, the most urgent one.

Bell got back within seconds.

_' Where are you?'_

Goddamn Marcus, using full sentences. Who did he think he was? Didn't he understand this was a time for panic? Sherlock shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he shakily typed out _'brownstone'_. Now the wait.

Sherlock stared out to his left, eyes meeting with his window. The February air made the sky a dull, bleak grey. That was why the bees were in here. Too cold to stay outside. New York already had a harsh climate for their fragile bodies. Winters could destroy them.

The sky was grey and Sherlock was realizing that he just invited Detective Marcus Bell into his home. Jesus Christ, that was a mistake. Sherlock sighed softly, standing up. Might as well look after his bees while he waited for disaster to strike. It only took a few minutes for Marcus to get there. His arrival was announced by hurried knocking on the door and a shout of Sherlock's name. Turning around, the consulting detective hesitantly scampered towards the door, opening it a crack once more. Bell looked worried. And out of breath. And covered in snow. Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes for a moment before slowly removing the chain lock that was keeping the door closed all the way.

Sherlock kept staring at him as Marcus shouldered his way through the door to stand in front of Sherlock.

"Holmes? You okay? You look a little spaced -" Sherlock didn't let him finish, kicking the door closed before grabbing Bell and roughly pressing their lips together. Sherlock felt as though he had simultaneously done something very, very, wrong, and completed the will of the universe. He felt mildly ill and a shudder ran down his spine. Bell was amazing, in more ways than one. Sherlock knew it, but he knew it especially now - it felt like Marcus was bringing Sherlock out of whatever pit he had been in, whatever state of suboptimality he had been in and pulling him into a higher state of being, a state of wonder and awe. After a few seconds, Sherlock staggered backwards, staring at Bell with an expression of fear, as though he had just hurt someone very near to his heart. Bell paused for a moment before speaking.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Sherlock?" Sherlock flinched at that, backing up a little more.

"I don't - I don't know! You - you can - leave. Leave." Sherlock was trying to find somewhere to hide, but that was proving unsuccessful. Bell squinted at him.

"Have you been eating honey?" Sherlock stopped, staring at him.

"What kind of question is that?" he said indignantly. Bit rude, considering what just transpired.

"I don't know, you've got the bees in here and you - you taste like -" Sherlock cut him off, shaking his head.

"Maybe. Maybe. I do have to put them to some use, you know." Bell chuckled. Sherlock gave a weak smile back. "You're - um - not - not mad?" Christ, his stuttering problem was back. Sherlock felt like he was back in boarding school all over again.

"Surprised, yeah. But not mad. You're not bad, for a man cooped up in a room with bees." Bell nodded. Sherlock let out a deep sigh of relief. "Was waiting to see if you'd make a move, you know." Sherlock looked up with a frown.

"What?" He had been.... waiting? Sherlock squinted. "You're not the only person who notices things, Sherlock." Bell grinned, a hint of cheekiness in his expression. "You know, for a detective, you're awful bad at hiding things." Sherlock could feel his face heat up.

"Oh." He breathed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh. Well - um - you better get back to work. We can - we can talk about this later, right?" Bell nodded.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Holmes." Sherlock frowned at that. Was it Valentine's Day?

He let the bees drown out his thoughts again as the door closed.


End file.
